Put Your Arms Around Me
by ladycobert
Summary: The courtship of Isobel Crawley and Richard Clarkson.
1. Let me believe that I am somewhere else

A/N: This fic is meant to dovetail with my little Cobert world – which is a bit different from the canon world. But basically, Richard and Isobel start finding their way toward each other with Matthew's death (and I think most Richobel shippers imagine this to be a catalyst for them, so you won't be unfamiliar with that). That story is told in the "Black" chapter of _Spectrum_. Here I reproduce the important excerpts for you, in case you haven't read it already. A few things, in case you're not aware of my headcanon here: Cora is pregnant with another child; Mary has not had a baby (yet); Mary and Edith had been majorly fighting; and anything else that seems strange, send me a PM and I'll explain. I hope you enjoy my first real foray into Richobel territory!

* * *

Mid-March, 1922

Isobel beamed on her luncheon guests, gratified that they appeared to be having such a nice time with her at Crawley House. Her cook – who, she admitted, was no Mrs. Bird – having gotten much better at preparing her son's favorite meals, Isobel had decided to have Matthew and Mary over. As they talked together and ate, Isobel thought that she recognized a certain aspect to Mary, although she couldn't be sure. Besides, whether _that_ was true or not, there was no doubting that the pair were happy together. And that's all Isobel cared about; her son's happiness would always be tied to her own.

"Won't the two of you spend the afternoon here? Stay through tea?" Only one regret dampened Isobel's happiness for her son and his wife. They didn't live with her at Crawley House. She never seemed to get enough time with them. True, Robert and Cora invited her for dinner very often, but it wasn't quite the same as having Matthew and Mary to herself.

Matthew shook his head as they moved toward the entry-way. "I'm sorry, Mother. We'd like to, but Mary and I made a promise to Sybbie that we'd be back in time for tea." He smiled, helping Mary on with her coat before putting his own on and picking up his hat. "Besides," he smiled at his wife, "I have had a surprise made for you, Mary, and I have to go to Ripon to get it."

"Oh, are we going to Ripon before we go home?" Mary tugged on her gloves, looking at him quizzically.

Laughing, Matthew turned to his mother. "You see why I love her? She doesn't concentrate on the 'surprise' part of what I just said – but on the fact that her plans have been shifted."

Isobel smiled sadly. She'd hoped they'd stay a little longer at least.

"Matthew, stop teasing," Mary said as she placed her hat over her coiffure, using the entry-way mirror to make sure she tilted it just right upon her head.

"In answer to your question, darling, no. _We_ are not going to Ripon. _I_ am going to Ripon. I had the motor sent from Downton to collect you and take you home, and I'll be back in plenty of time for tea." He clapped his hat onto his head.

Mary turned from the mirror to grin at him. "It'd better be a very good surprise then, to make up for my having to go home alone."

"It is." He smiled widely at her. "I believe I hear the car come for you now." Touching Isobel's arm, he leaned forward to kiss her cheek. "Marvelous luncheon, Mother. We had a lovely time, didn't we, Mary?"

Mary took her turn in saying farewell to her mother-in-law, kissing her cheek and embracing her warmly. "Yes, we did. Perhaps next time we can stay a little longer." She smiled at Isobel, and, taking her husband's arm, walked with him out the door.

Isobel stepped out behind them, going halfway to the gate, close enough to see them off. She crossed her arms against the March chill, not having put on a coat, and waited while Matthew handed Mary into the motor. He kissed her before closing the door for her, then got into his own little car. "See you tomorrow for dinner at Downton, Mother!" He called out as he started the engine and then waved at her.

Waving until she could see him no more, Isobel went back into her house and shut the door.

* * *

Robert ran slightly late for tea that afternoon. "Confound it," he muttered as he tucked his watch back in his pocket, walking faster. Sybbie would be upset if he was this late, and Cora would be upset if Sybbie was upset.

Just as he reached the drawing room, he heard a scream of agony or alarm coming from the direction of the foyer, followed closely by a wail of "Noooo!"

Hastening toward the sounds, he almost ran into Carson at the foyer entrance.

"Oh God, Mary," Robert exhaled, immediately kneeling on the floor beside her. She'd fainted. He looked up at the butler, "Carson, go get her ladyship and Lady Edith."

Without so much as a "yes, my lord," Carson, fear in his eyes, turned on his heel and rushed to the drawing room.

As he stroked Mary's cheek and made a cursory examination to be sure she was breathing normally and hadn't struck her head, Robert became aware of a strange noise. Glancing around, he spotted the telephone receiver hanging off the edge of the table. Standing, he took this in hand and spoke into the telephone, "Hello?"

"Lord Grantham? Is Lady Mary alright?" The voice belonged to Richard Clarkson.

"She seems to have fainted, but I think she'll be fine. Clarkson, what's happened? Why has my daughter fainted?" Robert began to get extremely agitated.

Richard hesitated. Then, in a the tone of a man who did not want to be the one to break this to yet another person, he said, "Your lordship, I'm sorry to have to tell you that Matthew Crawley was in an accident this afternoon. He's been – he's been killed."

"What? How can that be?" Robert looked down at his daughter, then back up to the others hurrying toward the foyer, his eyes wide with disbelief.

"Lord Grantham, a lorry struck Mr. Crawley's motor car, and he was thrown from it. He was rushed here, but…." His voice faltered. "There was nothing to be done. He was already gone."

"My God," he breathed, lowering himself into a chair, watching Edith pick up Mary's head and put it in her lap and Cora turn to tell Tom to get her smelling salts from her dressing table as quickly as he could. "Isobel?" he asked, vaguely remembering that Matthew's mother would need to be told.

"I'm going to Crawley House right now, your lordship."

Robert thought he heard the man sigh mournfully. He closed his own eyes. "Right. Thank you, Clarkson. I – I have to tell the others. Goodbye." He put the receiver down without waiting for a response.

Cora looked at him in slight panic. "Robert, what's happened?"

Tears forming in his eyes as the reality began to sink in, he gazed at his wife a moment, taking in her worried expression and her rounded belly. Unable to speak yet, he stood, took her hands in his, and led her over to the chair in which he'd been sitting, helping her settle onto it. He couldn't have Cora fainting and falling to the floor too.

Tom burst in with the smelling salts. Keeping his hand clasped around one of Cora's, Robert waved at Tom and Edith with the other. "Not yet," he said, roughly. "She doesn't need to hear it twice."

Edith repeated her mother's question, "Papa, what's happened?" Tom stood poised over Edith and Mary, smelling salts at the ready. Carson didn't seem to know what to do with his hands and kept his eyes trained on Mary.

Robert addressed them all, but he looked at his wife. "There was an accident this afternoon. Matthew was involved. He – he didn't make it."

"What?" Edith exclaimed, while Cora put a hand over her mouth in shock, and Tom looked down. Carson blinked several times.

"It's true." Robert felt his breathing get heavier and his face flush, but he knew he had to tell them first and to make sure Mary was alright. "That was Clarkson on the telephone, and he was certain. Matthew's gone." He closed his eyes, feeling his chest start to constrict now as Cora squeezed his hand. "He'll tell Isobel."

"Robert?" Tom asked. "Shouldn't we wake Mary now?"

Robert's eyes opened and he nodded. "Yes. Yes, we have to see that she's alright – alright from the faint I mean." He clutched Cora's hand tighter as perspiration beaded upon his brow.

Edith took the smelling salts from Tom, tears already streaking her face. She held them under her sister's nose.

Mary's eyes flew open. She focused them on her papa, whose face told her in one glance that she hadn't just woken from a nightmare. "No," she whispered, curling up into a ball, and turning herself so her face burrowed into her sister's skirt. Her sobs echoed around the small room, her anguish affecting them all. Cora looked as if she wanted to kneel beside her and take her in her arms, but she couldn't in her state. So she simply wept, one hand over her baby bump and the other in her husband's, her heart aching. Carson continued to wring his hands, his face as sad as anyone had ever seen. Edith stroked Mary's hair, and her tears blended with the ones her sister poured onto her dress.

Tom, grey-faced, crouched down and whispered, "Mary, please, you have to tell us if you're hurt from falling on the floor when you fainted."

Mary shook her head vehemently before burying her face even farther and continuing to choke with sobs.

[Extended Cobert scene deleted; see _Spectrum_, "Black" for it.]

* * *

Richard Clarkson's steps grew ever heavier as he approached the door to Crawley House. As much as he wanted someone else to give her the terrible news, not sure if he could endure to see the pain he knew it would cause her, he also knew that it could come from no one else. He had to be the one to tell her, and certainly not over the telephone.

He rang the bell and waited, taking off his hat and worrying the brim of it.

What he hadn't expected was for Isobel herself to answer the door, her face alight when she saw it was him.

"Oh, what a pleasant surprise," she said. "I wasn't expecting anyone for tea, but I can get Lily to bring another cup. Come in, and we'll go into the sitting room."

Richard sighed, watching her step back from the door and go ahead through the entry-way, calling out to the maid to make sure the tea tray had enough for two. He hung up his coat and hat and followed her into the neatly appointed sitting room. Waiting for her to sit, he sat across from her and wondered how on earth he was going to tell her what he had to tell her.

After a few moments, Isobel looked up from the tea tray and over at him. "My, you seem quite grim. Is there something you need to talk about?"

"Actually, Mrs. Crawley, there is."

Isobel listened to him as he told her what had happened, but felt as if she must have heard wrong. Something was wrong with her ears or her mind or perhaps his speech. Matthew couldn't be dead. He couldn't. He'd survived the War, he'd gotten through paralysis, he and Mary were going to have children and be marvelously happy. And she would be happy with them, playing with her grandchildren and watching her son be the kind of father his own father had been. It simply couldn't be true.

Richard watched as her eyes left his face and settled on some item by the fireplace, he wasn't sure what. He didn't think she actually saw anything, however. Her mouth was open, and she began to make a series of sounds, as if she were trying to speak, but couldn't. She appeared to be in shock.

Standing, he walked over to a small table where Isobel kept a limited variety of alcoholic beverages, but at least there was some brandy. Pouring some, he went back over to where she sat on the settee and sat beside her. Placing a gentle hand on her arm, he held the brandy out to her.

Absentmindedly, Isobel took the glass from him and had a sip, then another. She turned her head to look at him. "Tell me it isn't true," she said, somewhat more forcefully than he expected. "Please, tell me anything other than what you just told me. Please."

He shook his head slowly. "As much as I would like to, I can't."

"Richard, you can't tell me my world just ended," she said, closer to a whisper now as a lump rose in her throat, her eyes pleading with him.

He wanted nothing more at that moment than to tell her exactly what she wanted to hear. But he couldn't. Instead, he moved his hand from her arm to her hand, closing it over hers. "I'm so sorry, Isobel."

Closing her eyes, Isobel slumped forward, her body shaking with her tears. Richard reached forward and pried the brandy glass out of her hand, placing it on the table. He hated this. He hated watching her fall to pieces – even though he'd been almost certain she would. The headstrong, confident, determined, and sometimes unrelenting and exasperating, woman he'd come to – well – _adore_ melted before him. How he wished he could comfort her somehow.

Hardly knowing what he was doing, Richard pulled her to him, having her lay her head on his shoulder, keeping his arm around her and rubbing hers consolingly. Isobel continued to cry, her breath coming in great gulps, somewhat conscious of feeling grateful for an arm around her, letting her head sink into the fabric of his jacket. At that moment, it was the only thing that kept her from falling into a black hole, thus, she clutched at him, grasping his lapel and hanging on.

Richard had no idea how any of it was happening, but when he felt her grab onto his jacket, he found himself with his hand and lips against her hair, murmuring soothingly. He just wanted to ease her pain somehow. But all his years as a doctor had taught him that in the wake of the death of a loved one, there was no cure nor balm to heal it. The only thing to do was to take as much comfort as you could from those with you. And as he was the only one there – he would be her comfort, if he could. If she would allow him to be.

In time, Isobel became aware that he was holding her, so, rather embarrassed, she lifted her head to look at him, her face wet with tears, her hand still around his jacket lapel. "Richard, I –" She stopped, unsure what she even wanted to say. The rug had just been pulled out from under her, but she couldn't help noticing the tender, concerned look on his face and in his blue eyes. It gave her solace in a way she couldn't have imagined, in a way she couldn't explain. She opened her mouth to speak again, but she still didn't know what to say. She lowered her eyes.

Then, all of a sudden, she felt his hands cup her face and his lips press to her cheek, then the other. She closed her eyes and let him feather kisses over her face, not remembering the last time anyone had treated her so tenderly. Isobel's heart was so very heavy and his touch so light…. It was surreal, in a way, but felt more real to her just then than the truth he'd had to tell her.

And then she felt his lips converge upon hers, but, again, gently, almost hesitantly. When she didn't pull away, he took one hand from her face, sliding it around her shoulders and drawing her closer. She hadn't yet removed her hand from his lapel, but now she uncurled her fingers and placed her hand tentatively upon his neck, leaning into him a bit more.

Moved by his gesture to comfort her, Isobel's tears began to fall again. Her teardrops upon his hand brought him back to himself, and he broke the kiss, turning his head away from her. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have. I've taken a liberty, and… perhaps I should go."

Richard moved as if to get up, but was stilled by the tiniest of things: her thumb tracing back and forth lightly over his jawline, her hand not having moved from its place just above his collar. He turned to her again, looking into her eyes. They were so sad, yet had a soft quality to them just now as she gazed into his. "Don't go."

"Are you sure?"

Isobel nodded. "I – I don't think I can bear to be alone. You won't leave me alone, will you?"

He knew he could never leave her alone, especially when she asked him with such an expression of deep sadness on her face. Not only that, but there was also a sort of fear there, a kind he'd never seen before on her features, and it made him think he might weep too. "No, Isobel. I won't leave you alone."

With a great sigh that seemed to come from the deepest, darkest recesses of her soul, she withdrew her hand from his neck, but only to put her hand in his and rest her head on his shoulder once more. "Thank you, Richard."

"Isobel, you should drink something." The doctor in him knew that she could easily get dehydrated; the would-be suitor in him wanted to take care of her. "Some water, or perhaps Lily would make fresh tea…."

Richard watched as she leaned forward and picked up the brandy glass from the table, draining it in only a few gulps. She set it down again and resumed her place against his shoulder, physically and emotionally exhausted. "We were all supposed to have dinner at Downton tomorrow night," she remarked. "No doubt Cousin Violet would have grated on my nerves and Edith and Mary would have squabbled and Cora would have flaunted her pregnancy, but right now I'd give almost anything for it to be happening." She turned her head so it nuzzled more fully into his jacket. "Perhaps if I go to sleep, it'll be like wiping off a blackboard, and the day can be rewritten."

Sighing sadly, Richard rubbed her shoulder, wondering about her remark about Cora, but knowing it was certainly not the time to ask. "Do you want to take a nap before dinner?"

"I don't want dinner. And I don't want to wake up. Not if it will still be true when I do." Her words were barely discernible, muffled as they were by his shoulder.

"Let's take one step at a time, Isobel. May I help you upstairs?" He knew now this was going to be even more difficult for her to accept than he thought.

She stiffened. "Will you stay with me?" Her voice had that fearful note to it again.

"If that is what you would like." He stood, keeping hold of her hand as she led him slowly, silently up the stairs and into a room modestly but comfortably furnished. Now that they were here and she was closing the door behind them, he wasn't so sure. How would it look for him to be here? "Isobel, perhaps I –"

Isobel sat on a chair to take off her shoes. She looked up at him. "Richard, please, don't stand on ceremony now. I need my friend." Her shoes having been put aside, she rose and slid her hand in his, her eyes welling up again.

"Of course." He hoped he was more than her friend, but he would take that for now, especially as she'd said she needed him.

Squeezing his hand, she let it go and got up on the bed, unfolding a blanket from the foot of it. She arranged it over herself and leaned back against the pillows, turning her eyes to him.

Richard dragged a chair over to the side of the bed, so he could make sure she fell asleep. But as he was about to sit upon it, she shook her head. "Will you put your arms round me again?" she asked.

He gaped at her, wanting so desperately to comfort her, but suddenly becoming very confused. He stood there a moment, watching her stretch out her hand to him. The need to console her won out, and he gingerly climbed upon the bed, leaving his feet over the side, keeping himself carefully on top of the blanket she'd put over herself. She lifted herself up a little so he could slide an arm beneath her shoulders. Holding her against him, breathing in the scent of her soap – realizing that it truly was a familiar scent and so much a part of her – he allowed himself the impertinence of caressing her cheek.

Feeling safer with him there, it was not long before Isobel had fallen into blessed black oblivion.

* * *

At a knock on the door, Isobel started. "Mrs. Crawley," Lily was calling through the door.

It was pitch black and Isobel sharply drew in her breath to perceive that she wasn't alone in her bed. Then she remembered, and it was enough to make her want to crawl under the covers and never come out.

But Lily kept knocking and this woke Richard. He rubbed his eyes as Isobel leaned over to flick on a lamp. He glanced at the clock. Two in the morning.

They looked at one another, Isobel's expression drawn. She called out, "Lily, what is it?"

"Please, ma'am, Lord Grantham is on the telephone, and he said he thought Dr. Clarkson might be here. He needs to speak with him right away. What do I say?" She sounded a bit panicked.

Richard nodded, indicating he'd go to the telephone, no matter the repercussions of acknowledging that he was there.

"Lily, go tell Lord Grantham that Dr. Clarkson will be at the telephone shortly. I'll go to the guest room and wake him now."

As the maid called through to her, "Yes, Mrs. Crawley," Richard looked at Isobel in some gratitude. It wasn't necessarily his own reputation about which he was concerned, however. It was hers.

Isobel sat up and threw the blanket off, getting out of bed and putting her shoes on, straightening her dress. In a similar manner, he got up and smoothed his wrinkled jacket and shirt, shaking his trousers a little. She opened the door a crack and peeked out to make sure Lily had gone downstairs, then turned and nodded at him, gesturing for him to follow her.

Richard picked up the receiver. "Lord Grantham?" Isobel listened to the very short conversation, holding her breath for when Robert might inquire as to why the doctor was not in his own home or at the hospital, but instead at her house still. But he didn't. Apparently Robert was too upset about something that was happening to his wife.

As he replaced the receiver, Richard glanced at Isobel, not wanting to leave her this way, but knowing he had to. Isobel shook her head. "Go."

"I'll come back, if you'd like me to, as soon as I make sure all is well at Downton." He wanted to touch her cheek, but Lily stood at the other side of the entry-way.

Nodding, close to tears, Isobel simply repeated, "Go." Then she watched him leave. "Lily," she said, staring at the closed door, "go back to bed."

"But – Mrs. Crawley – you haven't had dinner, and you didn't touch your tea. What's happened?" Lily took a step forward.

Isobel put a hand over her mouth and bowed her head, tears escaping her closed eyes. She couldn't even bear to say it. In a few moments, she got up enough strength to murmur, "I'll tell you tomorrow, Lily. For now, please, go back to bed."

She felt the maid leave her presence finally, even as she felt her hesitation to leave her thus. Isobel made her way down the hall to her sitting room, one hand still over her mouth and grasping at furniture for support as she went, unable to check her tears. With trembling hands she poured another brandy and drank it nearly in one, sputtering a bit, but thankful for the fire spreading down her throat and into the rest of her. Then she went and stretched out on the settee, cocooning herself in a blanket Ethel had made and sent to her from her new position – a position she'd taken to be closer to her own son.

Her entire body shaking with sobs now, Isobel lay there and waited for him. For Richard – or for Matthew – she really couldn't say.

[Scene at Downton deleted here. See _Spectrum_.]

* * *

He had a feeling she'd left the door unlocked for him. So Richard tried the door handle, not wanting to disturb anyone if he didn't have to, hoping Isobel had gone back to sleep. It opened.

Noticing light coming from the sitting room, he went there and found her as he had hoped, asleep. Her hair had become loosened and a lock of it had fallen across her face. He moved it back gently so as not to wake her, then left the room to make his way down to the kitchen.

When he came back up, he set the tray on a table, then sat on the edge of the settee, stroking her cheek with the backs of his fingers. Isobel opened her eyes and looked up at him, but she didn't move.

"Isobel, you should eat something." He wanted to call her "dear" or "darling" or "sweetheart," but he knew it wasn't time for that. For now he would savor her first name upon his tongue, not having had the freedom to call her that before today.

She shook her head, not hungry.

Richard's gaze implored her. "Please, Isobel. If you were the nurse in charge, what would you tell yourself?" He prevailed upon her medical training and her professional self, hoping that it would do the trick.

Isobel closed her eyes, inhaling deeply and then letting out a long breath through her nose. When she opened them again, she nodded, knowing he was right.

He helped her to sit up and set the tray over her lap. He'd heated up some chicken broth he'd found, and he'd made a pot of tea for her. He took the closest chair to the settee and watched as she began to eat.

Isobel had to admit she was hungrier than she'd thought and sipped at the broth gratefully. "Is Cora alright?" she asked, sounding somewhat hoarse.

"Yes, she's fine. False labor."

Nodding knowingly, Isobel kept sipping, her eyes on her soup dish. "Not surprising, given –" she choked on even these words – "given the events of the day."

Richard hoped that she could at least finish the broth before breaking down again. Then she'd have a little more strength.

"And Mary?" She met his eyes now.

"Lord Grantham said she was highly upset, but that she was sleeping, and Lady Edith was staying with her. Isobel, she fainted when I told her."

Isobel stared at him with tears in her eyes. "But," she whispered, "she recovered and she's resting?"

He could see this was important to her. "Yes. She's fine." _As fine as she can be, being made a widow so young,_ he thought.

Nodding again, Isobel returned to her broth. "I'll have her visit here tomorrow."

"Isobel, why don't you go there, be with your family?"

Now she shook her head. "No, no, I can't go there. Not – not yet."

Richard sat in silence until she finished her broth and drank several cups of tea. Then he asked, "I know this is an impertinent question, and will possibly get me thrown out of your sitting room, but I have to ask: does it have to do with Lady Grantham?" She didn't look at him. "I ask only because you said something earlier, about her flaunting her pregnancy…."

Isobel shut her eyes tightly. "It was unkind of me to say that, and I'm sorry for it. Because, she doesn't, you know. She's so happy that she glows, but it's not a reason to be resentful." She turned to face him, her eyes once more brimming with tears. "I know she's lost a child. Two, in fact. And I saw, both times, how very deeply it affected her. She is a good mother, and a caring one, even if we don't always see eye to eye on how best to care for our children." She took a deep breath. "And I know how horribly unfair it is for any of us to have to see any of our children go before we do."

He fixed his eyes on hers, wondering that she could keep her voice so steady, even as her entire form trembled and her tears fell fast.

"I don't wish any ill on Cora or Robert or their baby. I am, truly, happy for them. But, even in their losses, they've still had Mary and Edith and each other, and then Sybbie and now even a new child. But I have no one, Richard. No one. Matthew was everything to me, you see. And now he's gone." She looked down at the empty soup bowl. "So perhaps you understand why I can't go there."

Richard heaved a deep sigh. He thought he did actually understand why. It was why he knew he needed to stay with her. The reality of the sudden loss of the only person she had left in the world who was truly hers threatened to engulf her entirely.

Isobel saw that he was taking the tray from her and setting it back on the table. Then he knelt in front of her and slid his hands under hers. "Isobel, is there anything at all I can do?"

She met his eyes, and, realizing that the very way he said her name was a caress, she gave him the tiniest of smiles, the first time he'd seen her smile since that afternoon. "Richard, you're already doing everything I need." Then – whether from exhaustion or gratitude or the need to be close to someone or simply the way he was looking at her – she bent down and kissed him.

This time he didn't stop it.

* * *

Mary slid out of bed very early. She didn't ring for Anna, but got herself dressed as best she could. She watched Edith sleep, her heart suddenly welling up with gratitude for how her sister had stayed by her, despite how things had been between them, especially since the servants' ball. Her mind went back to Edith's words then: _If you don't wish to accept my friendship, fine. But don't come knocking on my door if things go truly sour for you._

But the thing was, Mary hadn't had to knock. Edith had simply been there, no questions asked.

So when Mary had finished dressing and gathered her coat, hat and handbag, she touched her sister's cheek lightly, then departed.

It was not long until Mary was ringing the bell of Crawley House. Isobel had been awake for some time, having seen Richard off about an hour before, as he needed to get home and change to get to the hospital. She hated to see him go – for a number of reasons, some of which made complete sense to her and some of which made absolutely no sense at all. But that was the fact of the matter: she hated to see him go.

Mary was shown in by Lily, who looked at her sympathetically. _So the household knows_, Mary thought, hanging up her coat and hat and placing her handbag on the entry-way table. Her reflection was frightening, and Mary barely recognized the woman in the mirror as herself. _Of course_, she thought, _I won't really ever be the same again_.

"Mrs. Crawley is in the sitting room, Lady Mary," Lily said, gesturing for her to follow.

Mary nodded curtly and let herself be ushered to the room.

"Lady Mary, ma'am," Lily said, stepping aside for her to enter.

Isobel got up from her place at the desk and looked at her daughter-in-law as Mary said, weakly, "I'm sorry for coming this early, but…." Mary had managed to keep her composure since waking, but when she saw how Isobel's eyes turned tender, how pinched her face was, how black the circles under her eyes, she couldn't do it any longer. Mary went to her and pulled her into a tight embrace, tears soaking into Isobel's blouse. "Oh, Isobel."

"I know, Mary." Isobel's tears had been used up the night before. She was completely wrung, empty. So she held her daughter-in-law and wondered how the two of them would recover. Because, in spite of everything, they would recover. Matthew would want them to go on.

* * *

A few hours later, Mary was back in her own room, Anna packing a case for her. Mary went through some of Matthew's things, putting some of them in a box. Cora came through the open door, then stared around, a puzzled look on her face.

"Mary, what are you doing?"

Mary didn't look up from Matthew's bedside table drawer. "I'm going to stay with Isobel for a while."

Cora lowered herself into a chair. "Anna? Might you be a dear and go get us some tea?"

Anna nodded and left, closing the door behind her, knowing this was a signal that Cora wanted some privacy with her daughter.

"You didn't have to send her away, Mama."

Ignoring this, Cora smoothed her hands over her belly and watched her daughter. "Mary, I know you're upset, but that's exactly why you should stay here with us. We're your family."

Mary continued to put various things into the box. "I'm not going forever. Just for a week or so. Perhaps two. Isobel shouldn't be alone."

"Then why don't you ask her to come here?" Mary's calm demeanor disturbed Cora.

"I did. She won't come." Mary paused, a small stuffed animal in her hands. She swallowed hard and put this aside, her hand staying on it for a moment before taking a deep breath and going back to the drawer.

"Whyever not? We're her family too, and we care about her." Cora's voice caught as she spoke her next words. "She would have the empathy of another mother who'd lost a child."

Mary thought back to the conversation she'd had with Isobel earlier that morning. She thought she understood why it would be too difficult for Isobel to be there – particularly with her mama – just yet. She finally tore her eyes from the drawer and fixed them on her mother's. "Mama, I don't think you realize that, yes, you've lost a grown-up child too, but you have the rest of us. You have Papa. Isobel lost not just a child yesterday – she lost her whole world." She watched as her mama's visage became pained. "I don't say this to be insensitive, Mama. I know your heart hurts – for both of us – but it's just not the same. And, to be honest, I'm afraid for her. I don't want her to fall ill from grief. Someone needs to take care of her."

Two great tears slid down Cora's cheeks. "Baby," she whispered, "who will take care of you?"

"Mama, I can't worry about me. I need to focus on something else, to take care of someone, because if I don't –" now she faltered, "if I don't, I'm not sure I'll ever be able to get out of bed again." She bowed her head.

Cora hoisted herself from the chair and crossed over to her daughter, putting her arms around her. "Darling, you do what you have to. But, please, please, do something for me?"

"What's that, Mama?" she whispered into her mother's collar bone.

"Take care of yourself too. I am your mother, and I love you, and I'll worry. Telephone or come visit. Every day. I need to make sure you're alright, too." Cora kissed her hair. "Will you do that for me, Mary?"

Mary sighed deeply, inhaling the smell of her mother's perfume. "Yes, Mama. I promise."

[Two deleted Downton scenes. See _Spectrum_.]

* * *

Mary had gone up to bed after making sure that Isobel had eaten something, being an example for her in eating as much of her own dinner as she could herself. But then she'd felt rather ill. Not wanting Isobel to worry unnecessarily, Mary pleaded a headache – not that she would have needed to plead anything with her mother-in-law, as weary as she looked – and went to her room.

Isobel curled up on the settee, hoping Mary would be alright, and lost in other thoughts as well. Just as she'd decided to go up to bed herself – knowing she wouldn't sleep – Lily's head appeared in the doorway.

"Mrs. Crawley, you have a visitor, if you don't mind having one at this hour. He said if you were too tired, he'd leave."

The leap that her heart made was quite unexpected, taking her by surprise. "Who?"

"It's Dr. Clarkson, ma'am. Shall I tell him to call back tomorrow?"

Isobel couldn't keep a blush from creeping into her cheeks. She hoped Lily couldn't see it in the dimness of the room, Isobel having only the light of the fire in the sitting room tonight. "No, Lily, you may show him in. And then you can go to bed. I'll show him out when he's ready to leave."

"Yes, Mrs. Crawley," she said, withdrawing her head.

Isobel clasped her hands together in her lap nervously. He had said that he would come by to see her that evening, but now that Mary was staying with her, she hadn't been sure he still would.

Richard stepped into the darkened room, thankful to find Isobel alone. However, the transformation that grief had already wrought over her features in little over twenty-four hours – which he could see even by the light cast by the fire – caused him deep concern. He remained standing, unsure how she would receive him. "How are you?"

"About as well as could be expected, I suppose," she replied. Then, in a softer voice, she said, "Relieved to see you again, Richard."

"And Lady Mary?" He was reassured a trifle by her tone, but still uncertain.

Isobel looked down. "The poor child has lost her husband. But she's Mary." A wry smile appeared on her face. "She's decided to bury her grief by taking care of me." She lifted her eyes to him again. "But I know better. On the inside she feels her heart will never beat again. It's how I felt when Matthew's father – " She stopped herself, lowering her head, not wishing to speak of it anymore.

Richard simply nodded.

"Well," Isobel said, sighing, "It suits me well, because I can keep an eye on her too. Not that she wouldn't get care at home, but I think, in a way, she wanted to be close to the other person in his life who knew him best." She tried to smile, but it turned into a grimace. Somehow, with Mary, she could hold herself together. Perhaps it was for Mary's sake that she did. But in front of him – she knew she didn't have to. She pulled out a handkerchief and wiped her eyes. "I'm sorry, I'm being a dreadful hostess."

"Don't apo–"

She cut him off with a wave of her hand. "Please sit down, Richard. Here next to me, if you don't mind. And can I offer you a drink or – oh. Well, I dismissed Lily for the night but I could go down and make us some tea…."

While she nervously went on, Richard had taken his place next to her and put a hand over hers. "Isobel. Stop. You don't have to be that way, not with me." She looked at him. "Now, I'll have a drink, if you have one with me, and if you let me serve you."

Her eyes still bright with tears, she inclined her head, assenting. Feeling bolder now, he kissed her cheek before he got up to pour two sherries. He handed her one before sitting beside her again, sliding an arm around her shoulders and pulling her to his side.

"Thank you, Richard," she said, softly. She tilted her face up at him. "I don't know how to tell you how much –"

"Shhh, Isobel," he told her, kissing her forehead. "Let's just rest here together a while, mayn't we?"

Blinking back grateful tears, Isobel nodded, then faced the fireplace again, resting her head back in the crook of his arm, sipping her sherry. She knew that he understood that she didn't yet have the words to tell him how she felt. That she didn't even know how she felt exactly, that it was still all a dark mystery to her. Her grief was profound and true, but somehow, he'd given her something to cling to, whether ephemeral or not. Right here, right now, it was exactly what she needed.

* * *

A/N: Fic title and chapter names from Texas, "Put Your Arms Around Me."


	2. Do you think that I push you too far

Beginning of April, 1922

Richard smiled as he spotted Isobel walking some distance in front of him along the village lane. Hopping off his bicycle, he wheeled it over until he was strolling along next to her. She appeared deep in a brown study, as if she hadn't realized he'd joined her.

"Hello, Iso–" He coughed, interrupting himself. "Mrs. Crawley." They'd taken to calling one another by their Christian names when alone together, but they hadn't quite progressed to that in public.

Isobel shook herself and turned to him. A small smile crossed her face, although it didn't seem to reach her eyes. "Hello, Dr. Clarkson."

He'd called around to her house almost every day since Matthew had died – for tea or dinner or a postprandial drink – but even before this, he could have seen that something was wrong. Someone else might have attributed it to grief, but he knew her well enough now to see this was something more. He stopped, his expression concerned. "Iso– Mrs. Crawley? Are you alright?"

She knew he meant more than all the other things weighing her down – the things of which he already knew. "No, well, I don't know. I – I don't want to talk about it right now." It was neither the time nor place to discuss how Mary had been ill again that morning. She wasn't even sure whether to confide in him or not. "Please, tell me about your day instead."

"Well, I've been at the hospital most of the day. It's been relatively quiet, which is nice." To be honest, although Richard had seen Isobel nearly every day over the past couple of weeks, he missed her presence at the hospital. She had decided not to volunteer there for a while, her own grief making her doubt whether she could carry out her duties with a clear enough head. "And I've just been on a ride around the village." He tapped a hand on the bicycle handle as they continued to amble along. "It helps me think."

Isobel eyed the bicycle. "Matthew used to say the same." Richard noted with some pleasure that her voice didn't catch on her son's name as usual. Her eyes moved up to meet his. "I never learned to ride, though. His father taught him."

Richard shrugged. "I could teach you. If you would like, that is."

"Oh, I don't know. I tried once, a long time ago." She slid her sleeve up to show him the underside of her left forearm, pointing to a long, white scar. "You see that?" At his nod, she continued. "Seventeen stitches. When I fell off the bicycle, my arm caught on the edge of one of the pedals –" she gestured toward them on his bicycle – "and I decided it was a sign that I shouldn't try again."

"My word! I've never heard of that sort of injury from a bicycle. You must have fallen on top of it, as well as off!" He looked at her in bewilderment.

"Well, you know me. I do nothing by halves." She chuckled, and Richard was happy to see her eyes light up finally.

"Yes, I know." A little grin played upon his lips, remembering all the times she'd exasperated him with her determination to do things to the fullest extent. Then another sort of thought entered his head, and he coughed, willing it away. After his initial means of comforting Isobel, he'd backed away for the most part from the sort of intimacy that he'd begun, knowing how fragile she was and not wishing to take advantage. He thought, though, that something had finally connected between them, and, when she was ready, he believed those sparks might fly again. But she would have to move first.

Isobel turned a worried look upon him, her hand still holding up her blouse sleeve. "Are you catching a cold?"

Richard couldn't stop a flush from touching his cheeks, but he grinned. "Oh no. Although I'm feeling somewhat feverish, if I'm honest." His eyes strayed to the soft skin of the underside of her arm, despite himself.

Pursing her lips and observing him curiously, the innuendo going completely over her head, Isobel said, "Well, perhaps you should go home and rest."

Laughing a bit, he shook his head. "No, no, Mrs. Crawley, I assure you I'm just fine," he demurred.

"Alright, if you're sure." Her visage remained slightly concerned.

"Now, might you want to learn to ride a bicycle? I would be most honored to teach you."

Isobel looked askance at the bicycle, letting her sleeve slip back into place. "I don't know. It was bad enough my first go round."

Richard smiled at her warmly. "I won't let you fall."

She quit walking and gazed at him a moment. "No, I don't believe you would." With a smile, she took a deep breath. "Yes. Show me."

His smile growing wider, Richard held a hand out, offering to hold her handbag for her. Putting his arm through the strap, he let it hang off his arm, supremely unconcerned about any stares this might bring from others. Holding the bicycle, he helped her mount it, his color heightening a trifle when he was treated to a glimpse of well-shaped, stockinged calves. Now comfortably seated, grasping the handlebars, Isobel looked to him for instruction. He gripped the back of the seat and one of the handlebars. "Now, put your feet on the pedals. I won't let go, I promise."

Casting him another nervous look, she did as he said and put her feet up. She could feel her heart pounding, remembering the last time. But it wasn't really like the last time. No one had been beside her like this. And she trusted him.

"You have to balance. That's the trick to the whole thing. And it's actually easier once you get going." He held the bicycle steady. "Start pedaling, and just take it slow. I'll be right beside you."

At his nod of encouragement, Isobel took a deep breath and pushed the pedals very slowly. After she'd pedaled a few times, she noticed Richard's hand leave the handlebar. But he was still trotting beside her, and she was aware that his other hand hadn't let go of the back.

Isobel knew he would never let her fall.

Unfortunately, her skirt was not the best garment for outdoors sports, and she got a foot caught in it. She lost the balance she'd been carefully maintaining, and the bicycle wobbled, tipping her over.

But where the bicycle would have deposited her painfully upon the lane, Richard, sensing this, pulled it toward him with a powerful flick of his wrist. Isobel tumbled over, landing against his chest, still astride the bicycle. She lingered there a moment, with her head against his shirt, catching her breath. For a moment she didn't want to move, as she could smell the faint scent of his cologne and feel his heart beating against her cheek.

"Mrs. Crawley?" he ventured. "Are you alright? You're not hurt are you?" He still held the back of the seat and reached up his other hand to touch her arm.

Pushing herself a little away from him with her hands upon his chest, she met his eyes. "No, I'm fine. I think maybe that's enough for today." Realizing she still had her hands pressed against his chest, she blushed and lowered her lashes, then scrambled to dismount the bike, putting it between them and adjusting her hat.

Grabbing a handlebar, Richard watched her curiously. He'd thought he'd detected a certain look in her eyes. "Mrs. Crawley, would – would you have dinner with me tonight?"

Isobel's raised her face to him. "What? I – there's Mary."

He could sense more to her hesitation than simple concern for her daughter-in-law. "It's just a thought. If you change your mind, telephone me. Will you think about it?"

Seeing how his entire demeanor pleaded with her, she nodded. "I will think about it. I should go now. She's expecting me for tea."

Richard rested the bicycle against himself and drew his arm back through her handbag strap, passing it over to her. He touched his hat. "Good day then, Mrs. Crawley." _Sweet Isobel_, he thought.

"Good day, Dr. Clarkson." _Richard_.

* * *

"Isobel, you've been staring at that scone for almost ten minutes." Mary poured herself another cup of tea. "Should you go lie down?"

Mary's voice broke through Isobel's reverie. She couldn't shake the smell of men's cologne or the feel of a gentle hand on her arm or the sound of a Scottish brogue from her head. What was more – she wasn't sure she wanted to. Her mind spun in great circles, a state it was nearly always in for the past two weeks, when she wasn't lost in the black hole of her own grief. She couldn't decide whether she felt calm in Richard's presence or if the dizziness was so acute that it put on a veneer of stillness.

She didn't know. But she longed to find out.

"No, I'm fine, Mary. It's just I –" Isobel looked at her daughter-in-law. Mary appeared supremely serene, even though the circles under her eyes deepened daily, and her pallor belied her tiny smile. She wanted to tell Mary the truth – if not the entire truth. "Dr. Clarkson invited me for dinner tonight. But it's such short notice, and it would be rude of me to leave you on your own…." She lowered her eyes to her tea cup.

"Do you want to dine with Dr. Clarkson?" Mary watched Isobel. He'd been so kind to both of them since her husband's death, but she'd wondered if his kindness to her had been somewhat different than how he'd been toward Isobel. And she thought that perhaps Isobel might be inclined to reciprocate.

Isobel sighed. "I don't know. He's a dear friend, but I shouldn't leave you." She looked up at Mary, who was shaking her head.

"If you want to go, then you should. Neither of us have felt like venturing out much, and I think it would do you good. He knows how difficult this has been for you – for both of us – so he won't put upon you like other company might. Please, don't worry about me. I haven't felt too well all day, so I may simply have a quiet dinner, a warm bath, and crawl into bed with a book." Mary gave her a little smile. "You should go and try to enjoy yourself if you can." She paused, then said, "Matthew would want you to."

Tears pricked Isobel's eyes. "Are you certain, Mary? I won't go if you want me to stay here." She didn't want Mary to think that she was abandoning her or that her own grief had left her.

"No, please go, Isobel. I'll be fine, I assure you." Mary put a hand over Isobel's.

Nodding, Isobel turned her hand to clasp Mary's. "I'll go telephone him and accept the invitation then." She stood and pressed a kiss to Mary's cheek before letting go of her hand and walking to the entryway.

Taking a deep breath, she picked up the telephone receiver and asked for Richard's home telephone.

"Isobel, how wonderful to hear from you," he said once she'd greeted him.

"Yes, well, I've talked to Mary, and she said she wouldn't mind if…. I'd like to accept your dinner invitation, Richard." Isobel exhaled loudly, placing her hand over the mouthpiece so he wouldn't hear.

"I'm delighted. Shall I call for you at half six? There is a lovely restaurant in Ripon where I would like to take you, if that sounds agreeable."

Isobel blushed at the unconcealed glee in his voice. "Yes, both of those things sound fine. I'll be waiting for you in the entryway at half six then. Goodbye."

"Goodbye, Isobel." Richard replaced the receiver and went to get ready.

Closing her eyes, Isobel wondered what she'd just said yes to. Her heart pounded, and she couldn't stop trembling.

She went back into the sitting room feeling as if she might faint.

Mary, seeing the pink in Isobel's cheeks, sipped at her tea and said nothing. But a knowing gleam came to her eyes.

* * *

At half six sharp, Richard strode up to the door of Crawley House. Wiping his sweaty palm on his trousers, he lifted the hand to ring the bell. But before he could, the door opened.

He smiled at Isobel framed in the doorway. "Good evening, Isobel." He extended his other hand toward her; he held a bouquet of flowers.

Isobel's own smile appeared a trifle lopsided and her brow creased. She took the flowers from him, however, murmuring her thanks. "I'll give these to Lily to put in water for me. Wait for me a moment?" Without waiting for an answer, she pushed the door almost closed, leaving Richard standing there, a bit disconcerted.

Going to the hall stairs, Isobel called down for her maid. Waiting for Lily, she clutched at the wall with the hand not holding the bouquet. _My God, _she thought. _Is Richard Clarkson courting me?_ She remembered the night he'd told her of Matthew's death and the day after. He'd stepped back from that, which had been a blessing to her, because it was too much to take in all at once. He'd been such a comfort to her, somehow knowing what she needed – that night and since. She realized it wasn't such a stretch, that he must feel something for her if he'd comforted her in the ways he had. But – _do I _want _to be courted? I'm a widow and a grieving mother…._

As Lily took the flowers, Isobel swallowed hard. _But perhaps I've forgotten that those don't completely define me._ She saw Richard's blue eyes before her, and it made her smile. For now, that was all that mattered. Putting a hand to her throat, she took another deep breath, closed her eyes briefly, then went back to the door, retrieving her evening wrap and handbag from the entryway table.

Richard appeared relieved to see a genuine smile on her face. As she closed the door behind her, he leaned forward tentatively, placing a small kiss on her cheek, then holding his arm out to her. Isobel took it, and he led her down the path.

"I hired a car for the evening. I'd rather not drive once it gets dark. I know Ripon isn't far, but my eyes aren't what they used to be." He chuckled good-naturedly.

Isobel wasn't certain what to say to this, and, as her nerves had returned, she simply smiled at him and let him hand her into the motor. He went around to the other side and slid onto the seat next to her.

Sensing that she wasn't completely at ease, Richard began to talk to her, hoping to reassure her. "With the end of the War, everything is changing. There have been a number of old establishments to fall in Ripon, which is unfortunate, but in their place are new ones."

Knowing he was attempting to keep her mind occupied, Isobel let him go on about things of which she was already keenly aware, appreciating his innocuous chatter. She clasped her evening bag on her lap and variously looked between his animated face and the window. They sat with a wide space of the back seat between them, and Isobel wasn't sure if she were more relieved or saddened by this. She longed to draw closer to him, but at the same time was afraid to, unsure that what she felt was something for him – or simply loneliness. She could never lead him on.

But as the drive to Ripon went on, and the sun disappeared, leaving them in near darkness, she stopped listening to his words and began listening to his voice. It was so familiar to her, and, yet, there was a new lilt to it that she didn't quite recognize. It tugged at her in a way she couldn't explain.

When they arrived at the restaurant, she let the driver open the door for her, then took Richard's arm once more. Something about the steady press of his arm made her breathe easier.

The restaurant was a quiet little place, for which Isobel was grateful. The host seated them in a corner, away from most of the other diners. Isobel suspected that Richard had requested this for them. She smiled at him from across the table in appreciation.

"I've eaten here several times, and everything I've had is very good. Order whatever you've a fancy for, Isobel." He grinned at her before his face disappeared behind his own menu.

Isobel found she didn't have much appetite, her stomach being full of butterflies – _where did they come from?_ – so, after a brief perusal of the entrees, she put her menu down and sipped at her water. "Richard, I believe I'll have whatever you have. I trust you."

Richard's eyes appeared above his menu. "You do?"

"Well, yes. If you say you've been here before…."

He nearly sighed in relief. She sounded almost her old self. He wanted her to trust him – to really trust him, and not just with a dinner order – but he wanted even more for her to be herself again. He couldn't be sure about anything unless she was. If the fragile creature who'd emerged a couple of weeks ago attached herself to him, he knew it was a tenuous bond. But if Isobel Crawley, fierce crusader for good, the woman who'd taken a prostitute into her home for rehabilitation, who barreled in where angels feared to tread – if she were to accept him… he knew nothing would break that. He understood what a chance he was taking, going ahead and trying to court her so soon.

But he couldn't seem to help himself.

As Richard told Isobel what he planned to order and got her opinion of it, as they waited for their food, spending the time with wine and conversation, he reveled in her slightly crooked smile and her brown eyes that had taken on a sheen of emerald – as they sometimes did – that evening. She seemed to relax, and they even began to laugh a bit by the time the meal arrived.

"Oh, this is delicious, Richard. We'll have to come here again." Isobel's appetite seemed to have returned when she'd tasted the food.

Richard nearly choked when he heard her words. She'd said _we_. _We. _He wiped his mouth with his serviette and tried to ignore the way his heartbeat picked up. It had to be a casual comment, and he couldn't put stock in it. "Er, yes," he replied. "I'm glad you're enjoying it."

They ate the rest of the meal in relative silence, Isobel looking up to smile at him again every so often, and Richard returning it with pleasure. Once they'd both put their silverware down, he addressed her again.

"Since I chose dinner, it's only fair that you select the dessert." He picked up the dessert menu and handed it to her. "And shall we have coffee or tea?" He knew Isobel had gotten used to both, since both were served after dinner at Downton – Cora having introduced coffee to their postprandial beverage choices.

Isobel's eyes ran down the menu. "I think a nice slice of pie? And coffee for me, I think."

Richard waved the waiter over and asked for two slices of pie and two coffees, then he turned to smile at his dinner companion again.

"May I ask you something, Richard?" Isobel lowered her voice somewhat.

"You may ask me anything you wish." Richard drained his wine glass.

Isobel fixed her eyes on him and asked seriously, "Why are we here together?"

Richard realized that he shouldn't be taken aback by such candor, not from her, but he was anyway. He took a moment to answer, continuing to gaze at her. He longed to tell her the truth, but he didn't want to frighten her. "I wanted to spend some time with you, Isobel." He reached across the table to where her gloved hand rested next to her plate. Taking it, he pressed it gently. "I have become quite fond of you. I know that we've had our quarrels in the past, and I'm sure that won't change…." He grinned. "But I had thought we might get to know one another better. That's all."

Her expression softened somewhat, and he felt her hesitantly press his hand in return. "Richard, to be honest, I don't know how I feel about much of anything anymore. But I would like that, I think."

The blush that rose in her cheeks at this filled Richard more than he could ever have anticipated. It gave him hope.

Richard let her hand go when the waiter brought their dessert. They sat in companionable silence again while they had their dessert. He wanted so much for the evening to continue, but he didn't want to press his luck.

Chit-chatting for a while over coffee – discussing a few medical things, Cora's pregnancy, Mary's general health – Isobel felt nothing in the world was so natural. It felt so easy to sit there and talk with him, to share a meal, to watch him smile at her. But was that merely friendship – or more? She didn't know.

But she wanted to find out.

They sat next to one another in the darkened motor car. It was amazing to them both how their relaxed conversation in the restaurant could turn into anxious silence here.

So, endeavoring to break this anxiety, Richard felt for her hand across the seat. Finding it, he clasped it warmly in his own. When she didn't pull it away, he squeezed it gently and was rewarded by a press of her hand in return. His own fretfulness ceased with this exchange.

But Isobel's heartbeat raced. She found that the closer they came to what must be the end to the evening, the more she wanted to hold on to him. Her confusion returned: was it because she was frightened to be alone, or because she simply craved his particular presence? Had she merely wanted company, she might have spent the evening with her daughter-in-law, mightn't she? Her head continued to whirl. She couldn't make sense of anything.

Richard walked her to the door, her hand still in his. When they reached it, Isobel turned to him. "Richard, I had a lovely time. It was something I didn't think I could do this – this soon."

"You miss him," he said simply, his eyes two blue stars piercing through the dim light cast by a single lamp lit by the door.

She nodded. "I'm not sure who I am anymore without him." She bowed her head, tightening her hold on his hand. "Forgive me. It's all still so fresh."

Taking one step closer to her, he said in a low, sympathetic voice, "I know. That's why – well, perhaps this was too soon, Isobel. I don't want to confuse you further." His tone was sad at the same time that it was resolute.

Isobel lifted her eyes to his, shaking her head slightly. "No, please, Richard. I – I'd like to see more of you. Don't give up on me yet." A lump rose in her throat, and she knew that she couldn't let him go. Not without finding out what could be between them.

The urgency in her voice caused him to stifle a gasp. "I'd like that very much, Isobel. More than you know, I think." He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it through her glove tenderly.

Before she even realized it herself, Isobel leaned forward and followed his kiss on the hand with a kiss on the mouth. Placing her other hand on his cheek, she heard the sound of surprise that escaped his throat, but disregarded it. She couldn't stop thinking of when they'd kissed before and how much she'd wanted him to do it again…and hadn't realized it until he'd kissed her hand in such gentlemanly attention.

Richard, for his part, stopped thinking altogether, as well as he could. He hadn't imagined that she would kiss him, especially the way she kissed him now, tonight. It was more than he'd ever hoped for. He slid his other arm around her waist and pulled her closer.

When they parted to catch their breath, he whispered, "Isobel," and once again she believed that the very way he pronounced her name was a caress.

"Richard, I should go," she said rather reluctantly. "But there is tomorrow." She stroked her hand across his cheek. "There is tomorrow." Pressing one last light kiss to his lips, she disappeared into the house.

Staring at the closed door of Crawley House, Richard felt he might be able to fly home. "There is tomorrow," Isobel had said. "Tomorrow," he repeated, meandering back down the path. "Tomorrow."


End file.
